


in your dreams, whatever they be (dream a little dream of me)

by freshbloom



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF......, and blame boris and theo for being so precious, blame the mama's and the papa's for writing such cutsey songs, but yknow what, i just wanted them to be super soft okay, so that lil bitch is getting SAPPY, theo isn't as canonically repressed here oops, this is my fic, typical vegas vibes, we all wish this mf was THIS in touch with his feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-18 19:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbloom/pseuds/freshbloom
Summary: "This is better than dreams. You are better than any dream." He says simply, like it's a fact, like Theo is the only thing he could ever want enough to dream about, day and night. Like to want anything good in this world at all is to want him.





	in your dreams, whatever they be (dream a little dream of me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosekings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekings/gifts).

> this is dedicated to my bff and matching boris to my theo Anna!!!!! i was too intimidated to write boreo fics for over a year bc they're so tricky to get right, and going up against donna tartt's incredible writing is TERRIFYING, but anna convinced me to just give it a shot and see how it goes,, so this really wouldn't exist without her. i love u anna!!!! thank u for yelling with me at all times of the day and sharing your ansel and finn hypothesis. love u long time <3
> 
> this fic is also based heavily off of the song "dream a little dream of me" by the mamas & the papas, (if u couldnt tell from the title) so i'd recommend listening as you read!

He's not drunk, but he feels like it. They hadn't had anything to drink, and yet Theo is still reeling, watching the stars above him swirl into psychedelic patterns, intoxicated with the stillness, with the idea that him and Boris are all alone in this hollow little playground, nothing around for miles but the two of them. They'd made their way here after dinner, nowhere else to go and bored out of their minds at home. Somehow, Theo had convinced Boris to try out a bunch of childish tricks on the monkey bars; hanging upside down, leaning forward and spinning around the bar, climbing up on top and standing--only Boris had fumbled on the last one and toppled to the ground, coughing into the gravel and swearing in every language he'd ever learned. Theo had jumped down and joined him, biting his lip to hold back his laughter and helping Boris sit up. 

(_"Ow, fuck! You piece of shit!" He'd yelled, grabbing Theo's hand and pulling him down to the ground. Theo stumbled, tripping up over Boris' legs and landing sprawled in the rocks beside him. _

_"Jesus," Theo had choked out, laughing, sitting up and dusting off his hands. "You deserved it." _

_Boris scowled, muttering under his breath. "Trust me, Boris. Is fun, Boris. Now look, I do what you say and I eat shit."_

_"It's not my fault you're a fucking idiot." _

_"What if hurt my face, Potter?"_

_Theo shrugged, smirking. "You'd probably look a lot better than you usually do."_

_"Mudak!" A punch to Theo's shoulder. "Fuck you!"_)

They'd settled down on the gravel after that, laying down--Boris with his head resting on Theo's stomach, the both of them suddenly exhausted and caught up in the dreamlike solitude of the playground at night--dark, extended shadows, metal glinting out of the corner of their eyes in the moonlight; somewhat nightmarish but comforting all the same. The two of them lay there for ages, barely even talking, drinking in the simple joy of each other's company and staring up at the night sky--burnt black and glittering with stars, so close it's like they're floating around up there in all that space, two stars of their own, outliving this life and the next and lighting up lonely places. 

"You wanna go home?" Theo asks him, after a while. 

"No," Boris mumbles, voice lulled and spilling softly into the hazy night air around them. "Music?"

Theo sighs, fumbling around in his pockets til he manages to pull out his battered iPod. Carefully, he untangles the headphones, holding them high over his head and letting the moonlight illuminate the knots and tangles. He gets them loose eventually, plugging them in and placing one bud in his ear before holding out the other to Boris, who shifts forward to let it reach, his head now coming to rest on Theo's chest. Wordlessly, he passes the iPod to Boris, letting his eyes slip shut as he shuffles through his playlists. Acoustic guitar filters in through the headphone, and then, soft, melodic singing:

_Stars shining bright above you,  
Night breezes seem to whisper 'i love you'..._

And suddenly Theo isn't in Vegas anymore, but in New York, years ago, when he was much younger and much happier. The song, the playground, Boris, all fade into nothing, and all he can see, all he can hear, is his mother in the evenings--drifting through the apartment all languid and dream-like, singing late-night lullabies under her breath:

_Say nighty-night and kiss me,_  
_Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me,_  
_While I'm alone and blue as can be,_  
_Dream a little dream of me..._

She flitted back and forth, her voice slurred and slow and drifting into his bedroom like faraway music, lulling him into sleep. Just before he dozed off, she would slip into his room, quietly walking over to his bed. 

"Nighty-night, Puppy." She would say, voice just barely registering in his sleepy haze, leaning down to press a kiss on his forehead, before gently ruffling his hair and leaving. 

Strange to be hearing this song now, years later, still feeling himself drift into dreariness but not at home, in his bed, with his mother moving around him, singing and speaking the lyrics like language, tucking him in and sending him away with sweet dreams---but sprawled in an abandoned playground, the gravel tugging and tearing gently at his skin and Boris resting against him; hazy in the darkness, humming and bathed in moonlight, his eyes all soft and light and his hair glimmering like silver. The change of setting is heavy and so drastic he feels suddenly nauseous with loneliness, like somehow he'd slipped too far into dreams and tripped up into some plagued life with no mothers and no dreams and no sleep, everything warped and shadowed with homesickness. 

But then Boris shifts, sighing softly and nuzzling his head into Theo. And suddenly it's easier to breathe, easier to exist in this playground and let the gravel sear the sticky residue of summer heat into his skin. Easier to slip into this world of nothingness. Him and Boris alone and lonely and caught in the middle, rewritten with the words and drifting on the concrete with their palms up like they're in prayer. And this song, dripping words holy through his busted earbuds, is their sacred text, their own book of beginnings. Listening to it feels like waves, like the day-dreamy daze of the ocean, rising and falling gently on the swell of water, Boris’ head on Theo's chest moving in time to his breathing._ Beautiful,_ he thinks. Before flushing furiously, afraid that in the dead quiet his thoughts are somehow far too loud, so loud that Boris, lost in the music, will hear them and freak. Get up, walk away. Leave. But he does none of those things. He closes his eyes, headphone in one ear and the slightest smile on his face as he hums along every now and again. And maybe it's the night breeze muddling his thoughts, or maybe it's just Theo; but he's suddenly reaching forward and tangling a hand in Boris's hair, running his fingers through it gently, even as they get caught on tangles. It's a lot softer than he expected it to be.

"Potter?" Boris says, “You awake?” Theo tugs gently on his hair in response. 

“You should sleep.”

Theo snorts, pulling his hair again, harder this time. "We're in the middle of a playground, idiot."

"So?" 

"So, we can't sleep here. Now shut up." 

Boris lifts his head suddenly, turning to the side and leaning on his elbow. His eyes are alight with teasing, and Theo swallows the onslaught of butterflies fluttering up his throat.

"C'mon, Potter," He says, smiling and leaning in close, so close. "You heard the song, yes? _Say nighty-night and kiss me..._" 

Theo scoffs, trying hard to ignore the flood of anxiety Boris' words have sent coursing through him. _What is he saying...?_ Still, he rolls his eyes, tries to play it cool. "Nighty-night, you irritating fuck."

Boris grins. "_And..._" He sings, raising his eyebrows slightly in expectation. 

"I..." Theo swallows roughly, searching desperately for something to say. He knows for sure what Boris is implying now, but the very thought keeps sending him into a panic stricken frenzy, paralyzed and struggling to think. "Boris..."

He flicks Theo's glasses, knocking them slightly askew. "Nighty-night and kiss me, stupid. Is not hard," He adds, when Theo says nothing. Boris leans down and pecks his cheek. "See? Just like that."

And just that is enough to kill him. The slightest brush of Boris' lips on his skin, lasting for barely a second and feeling more like a phantom kiss than anything real,_ but still._ He's trapped underneath Boris' weight, blinking stupidly and hoping his blush isn't prominent in the darkness, that Boris can't feel his heartbeat pounding itself into oblivion. And through all of it, the thing that sticks out the most, the thing that makes him feel both sick with joy and real, genuine nausea, is that he wishes Boris would kiss him again. He wishes so badly it hurts.

Boris raps his knuckles on the side of Theo's head. "Earth to Potter." 

Theo blinks again, turning his head away. _Pull yourself together._ "I'm listening, asshole."

"I think you are stuck, no?" Boris says, tilting his head to look at him properly. 

"Stuck?" Theo questions, furrowing his brow. 

Boris makes an impatient noise. "Frozen, shocked, however you say it." 

Theo raises an eyebrow, trying his hardest to seem nonchalant when he really does feel frozen, stuck in his own head and on the feel of Boris' lips (soft but cold, like a shock of ice water, even though his cheek is tingling with warmth where they touched him.) 

Boris shrugs. "Is just kissing," He says, smiling. "No big deal. Watch," 

"Wait, what do you--" Before he can finish Boris swoops his head down and plants another kiss on Theo’s cheek. Then another on his his forehead, his nose, his other cheek. Boris peppers kisses all over Theo’s face, smiling against his skin and knocking his glasses in his enthusiasm. And Theo is frozen, too terrified to move or breathe for just a second before the ice melts and he starts laughing, giddy breathtaking laughter that soaks the night air with joy. He squirms underneath Boris’ weight, scrunching up his face and halfheartedly trying to push him off. 

"Boris!" He yells through his laughter. "Get off, you stupid fuck!" 

"Make me, Potter!_ Potseluy menya!_" 

The kisses don’t stop; Boris’ lips travel further down, trailing along his jaw, heavier kisses that linger just a second longer than the rest and _oh wow,_ he thinks. He’s melting inside with warmth and something wholesome, like old music and drowsy dust drunk evenings, and love, so much love it could fill up all the empty space and reverse the night--the whole splintered playground and his own stripped to the bone heart suddenly sun-soaked and alive. Love that doesn't feel like love at all but like coming home. Like Boris; sharp gasps of laughter and chapped lips against his skin, feather light kisses and stringy, matted curls flopping down into his eyes. It's so much Theo feels like he could die, like he's burning from the inside out, and the closer Boris gets the more he feels himself wither away into ashes. 

"Boris," Theo says, breathless. Something in his tone makes Boris pull away and look at him, his dark, heavy gaze meeting his own. Slowly, Theo reaches up to rest his hands on his face, fingers brushing lightly over the flush burning on his cheeks. He swallows, flitting his gaze down to Boris' lips _(full, chapped, pink even in the darkness)_. He's shaking, anxiety shooting through his veins like a drug, leaving him dizzy and afraid and aching. It's exhausting; the tremor in his hands, the ringing in his ears, his pounding heartbeat suffocating his focus. But he knows what he wants, what he's always wanted. And if he gives up now, the way he always does, he’s afraid he'll spend his whole life searing with longing. 

“Kiss me.” Is all he says. And that's all it takes for Boris to lean down and press his lips to Theo's. Slow at first, like he's not sure if Theo's going to change his mind and pull away, but then Theo's hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him harder; Boris' hands by his waist, his hair brushing against his forehead, the weight of him and his lips moving firmly against Theo's so addicting he feels like he's spinning, like the whole world has just tilted on its axis and left him dizzied and gasping. Except his world is still kissing him, rough and raw and somehow sweet and gentle all at once, and Theo moves to wrap his arms around his waist, pull him even closer, when Boris pulls away. 

"Strange," He whispers, pulling back completely and looking at Theo, eyes roaming all over his face. 

"What?" Theo murmurs, trying and failing to get his breathing under control. Boris just stares at him, his own breathing heavy and fast, his eyes glazed over with some emotion Theo can't place. 

"The song...is strange." He says. Then, frowning, "Dreams are sad, because they are not real. You agree?"

Theo shrugs, confused but so love-drunk on the feel of Boris' lips on his own he's only barely understanding what he's saying. "I guess." Boris pulls away, moving to rest his head on Theo's chest again. Absently, his brow furrowed as he stares up at the collage of stars above them, he fumbles around for Theo's hand, interlocking their fingers and placing both hands over his heart. And suddenly Theo's face is burning again, his hand too, his nerves and his skin lit up like gasoline. 

"You can dream of someone all night long, but is fake." He finally says, and the quiet sadness in his voice is so disturbing in the stillness of the night air around them that Theo feels his heart start to ache, suddenly and so powerfully he's afraid he'll start crying. 

"I'd rather have real things." Boris finishes. And then he goes quiet. And suddenly it feels like the stars and the sky and the playground, splintered and vacant and marred, are sad with him too. _Badr,_ Theo thinks. He lights everywhere. Boris without light means the whole world is left fumbling and tripping up in the dark. 

"Sometimes dreams are nice." Theo mumbles, squeezing Boris' hand, not sure what to say or how to fix his sudden pain. 

Boris brings their intertwined hands to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss against Theo's knuckles. "I hope I don't ever dream of you, Potter." 

Theo frowns. "Why not?" 

"Because that means you're gone. No longer real life." Boris leans over, placing another chaste kiss on Theo's cheek, before resting his head again and closing his eyes. 

"This is better than dreams. You are better than any dream." He says simply, like it's a fact, like Theo is the only thing he could ever want enough to dream about, day and night. Like to want anything good in this world at all is to want him. 

"Oh." Is all he can manage. He feels giddy and like his blood has turned to sunshine, every warm feeling transcribing itself into his veins. It's dizzying and addicting and he thinks Boris must really be the moon because he feels love washing over him in waves that ebb and flow the same way Boris breathes. He never wants to stop feeling like this. He doesn’t know how he can live otherwise. And he thinks he knows what Boris means. He'd stay bedridden and nursing nocturnal headaches like hangovers just to dream of him, night after hopeless night. But none of it means anything at all if he can't have this, right now. If he can't have Boris. 

"So are you." Theo whispers, squeezing Boris’ hand again. It’s not enough, not really. He's sure he could spend his whole life searching for the right words and come up empty handed every time. But it counts, for now. Boris sighs contentedly and squeezes his hand back, slinging his other arm over his eyes and settling down. 

"We should probably go home." He says after a while. 

"Yah." Boris murmurs, the exhaustion in his voice making it clear he has no plan to get up any time soon. 

"Well," Theo says, smirking. "Sweet dreams."

"Fuck off."

**Author's Note:**

> AND THAT'S IT FOLKS! i know the ending and the beginning are Garbage but we dont need to talk about that fjfshd. overall im pretty happy with this for my first try! lemme know what u think, and i'll hopefully be writing more of these two soon <3 hope everyone enjoys the movie when it comes out!!! definitely try to read the book if u can.
> 
> until then, you can find me on my tgf tumblr @oakesfegleys


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